The High Prophecy

Chapter 8: P*ss, Tears & Flames

Chapter 8: Piss, Tears & Flames

It is a particularly rainy day in Nexonin... Actually, to call it just "rainy" would be to greatly undermine it, for it is pouring down like hell atop the houses and shops of the esteemed Nexonia City. Puddles of water fill the cracks in the roads of the poor streets... steaming, hot water. Wagons and carriages are hurrying about, trying to escape the fury of the clouds. In reality, those are the most fortunate, much less the folk hurrying in the streets like rats, seeking shelter from the rain.

Three old men are seated on chairs in front of a small house, only barely covered by their roof. One of them is a fat man with a pair of glasses, quite slow and a bit shaky and shivery, possibly in his sixties, the second man almost as old, dark-skinned, exhausted and quite obviously sick and tired of the world, and the third a slim man in his fifties, a bit mad-looking. They all dress in a poor fashion, but the slim one is very much sticking out, wearing a long, black hat, a strange, dirty silk sweater and a pair of pointy shoes.

The three men are seated, lazily watching the folk run from the downpour. A cup of tea is placed on the table, a distance away from the fat man, a trickle of hot raindrops from the roof takes a habit of falling onto it. He grabs the cup, drinking minute portions of it as he watches the rain and the various figures running in the street, splashing and making a mess out of themselves.

"You see?" says the fat man. "The water... It is rising."

"Steaming hot rain." says the dark-skinned man. "I can't imagine what it is like out there."

"Poor folks..." says the fat man. "Wares and goods are going bad... Those poor, poor folks will not handle this loss. Death knocks on their door every day, and every day the door becomes a little bit weaker."

"It is a miracle." says the dark-skinned man.

"A miracle?" cries the fat man, shaking as he utters his next words, almost as if he was about to have a stroke. "Is that your choice of words?!"

"It is an unpleasant miracle!" cries the dark-skinned man, struggling to work his brain up while speaking. "I forgot the word for it!"

"You idiot..." says the fat man, sitting back and taking another sip, before taking an exaggeratedly huge breath and then breathing out for a long moment.

"You know, it is said," says the fat man, "that hot rain is a sign of impeding doom... for you see, it is the angels up above, weeping, grieving our misfortune. It is a downpour of angels' tears."

"Cut the crap!" cries the slim man, breaking his silence. The other two men look towards him, confused. The fat man struggles to set himself a slight angle to the side to face the man, as he shakes heavily and with difficulty in his movement, while the dark-skinned man turns to him and gives him an exhausted, half-assed stare.

"Pardon?" utters the fat man.

"Angels' tears, my ass!" cries the slim man, in a mad manner. "Let me tell you something, the two of you, these are no tears, the angels are up there pissing down on us... Laughing and getting drunk on our doom... They love it!"

The two men brush him off and go about with their business. The slim man just shakes his head and continues to watch the street. A cloaked, beautiful young woman appears from beyond the roads, walking down the street towards them, green eyes, slim figure, blonde hair that is barely visible as she covers her head with her cloak, and despite her poor clothing and her dirt-ridden cloak, she does not look very different from a princess. She walks in front of the three men, carrying a basket of vegetables in her hand.

"Afternoon, father!" she calls, exasperated, not stopping.

"Afternoon, Meridith," calls the slim man, shaking his head, still slightly bothered, "home early?"